The Stag and the Deerstalker
by Pickwick12
Summary: Dr. Alana Bloom enlists the help of the world's only consulting detective to solve the mystery of the Copycat Killer and prove the innocence of Will Graham. Rated T for mentions of things in the shows.
1. Help Will Graham

**Help Will Graham**

"What am I doing here in this endless winter?"  
― Franz Kafka, _The Metamorphosis and Other Stories_

"You want me to prove he's innocent because you're in love with him." Holmes surveyed the woman in front of him—young, but not too young. Pretty, but not vulgarly so. She smiled.

"I won't deny that I'm attracted to Will Graham, but what makes you think I'm in love with him?" She looked at him like a cat contemplating a ball of string.

"No need to form any complex psychological suppositions about my mental processes," he answered, not altogether pleasantly. "It's pure logic."

"No one takes her first leave of absence in five years and travels overseas at considerable personal cost for the sake of a colleague, even a favorite colleague. If Will Graham was nothing more than a good friend, you'd have contacted me through my website and taken your chances. But you couldn't risk it. He's too important."

"Who's doing psychoanalysis now?" she asked mildly, picking up her teacup and surveying its complex map of Great Britain before setting it down gently and staring Holmes full in the face. "I really don't care how much you know about me. What I care about is whether or not you're willing to help Will Graham." Her tone was level, but he could tell her projected aura of calm was costing her great personal effort.

"That seems reasonable," Watson suddenly saw fit to put in. Holmes was forever amazed by his friend's bizarre timing. The doctor would say it was social courtesy, but the placement of his remarks seemed invariably random to his friend.

"We'll come," said Holmes.

"Excellent," said Dr. Bloom, a little too quickly. She traced the embroidered Union Flag on the pillow next to her. "How long will it take you to work out immigration?"

"Not long," the detective answered, offering no more than that. "Of course, you'd have sorted that already if you weren't doing this behind the backs of everyone in your department." He showed his hand on purpose, wanting her to see how much he knew and infer the futility of trying to play him the way she was obviously playing her superiors.

"True," she answered simply, unperturbed. "My boss thinks Will Graham is a deluded serial killer. Not exactly apt to provide an expense account for a trip to another country to recruit an amateur detective."

"Forgive me, Dr. Bloom," said Watson hesitantly, "but if you work for the FBI, why do you need Sherlock?"

Holmes smiled and provided his own answer. "Really, John, I'm the best in the world."

"I read the account of the Hudson case," said the woman, exactly as if he hadn't spoken. "It's part of the profiling curriculum."

"A book?" asked Watson, obviously annoyed that Holmes had never informed him of its existence.

"I've never read it," said Holmes. "I haven't time to care what inanity a psychiatrist surmises about a clear-cut case of serial murder."

"Hardly clear-cut," said Dr. Bloom, addressing Watson. "He made connections no one else in the world could have made. The book is a parallel between Mr. Holmes's movements and Mr. Hudson's. It's a profile of two types of abnormal psychology, the criminal's and the detective's. It's considered a classic in the field." She turned back to Holmes.

"You'll have to meet the author, whether you want to or not. Will Graham is insisting that he's the real killer, even though there's no evidence linking him to any of the murders. He was my teacher, a long time ago. His name is Hannibal Lecter."

Holmes pressed his fingertips together. "I look forward to meeting him."


	2. Abnormal Psychology

**Abnormal Psychology**

"Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light."  
― Franz Kafka, _The Metamorphosis_

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier took a sip of water and paced the floor in front of her door. She didn't know why she should be nervous; she had no reason to be. Returning to practice was a natural progression, as Hannibal had so often said. Still, she couldn't help wondering if she could fit back into her role as easily as her lone continuous patient seemed to assume.

The doorbell startled her out of her reverie, but as she greeted her first appointment, she began to feel herself regaining her footing. She had been here many times, and she knew what to do.

"Mr. Sigerson?"

"That's right," said the rail-thin young man in a halting voice. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a long-sleeved purple sweater. His eyes stared firmly at the floor.

"Come in," she said smoothly. "Would you like a cup of tea?" He followed her like an overgrown puppy and sat awkwardly on the edge of her plush therapy chair.

Anxiety. Neuroses. Pathological shyness. She sat down opposite her patient and flipped through her mental rolodex, assembling all the delicate psychological tools she planned to use to perform whatever mental surgery might be needed to relieve the patient's suffering.

Meanwhile, the young man's eyes darted frantically around the room.

* * *

"Dr. Lecter?" The small man stood ramrod straight in the front room of the office. Military, no doubt. He looked like he might salute any minute.

"Have a seat, Mr. Doyle," said the doctor. Half the battle with this type was getting beyond the formality. He relished the challenge; it had been too long since he'd had one.

"I appreciate you seeing me," said the patient, sitting forward in his chair opposite Lecter. "I was afraid the FBI trouble would push my appointment back."

"Not at all," said the psychiatrist, modulating his voice to be as warm as possible. "Minds don't cease thinking when trouble is afoot." The man smiled briefly at this, as if it reminded him of something.

"Mine doesn't," he agreed. "They—they tell me I have PTSD."

"Let's not worry so much about labels," said the doctor. "I'd rather talk about whatever is on your mind."

"I've never been to a psychiatrist before," said the patient, blinking.

"Why are you here?" asked Hannibal.

"I'm getting married," he answered. "I don't want to take the war with me."

"What if," asked the doctor in his softly accented English, "we could change that memory into something you don't want to lose?"

Doyle folded his arms. "If you can do that, you'll change my opinion of psychiatrists forever." It was an opportunity Hannibal was eager to take.

* * *

"The ice machine doesn't even work, John!" Sherlock Holmes huffed onto a desk chair in his friend's miserably small Holiday Inn room that adjoined his own equally dismal allotment.

"You're the one who insisted we couldn't stay in the hotel Dr. Bloom recommended," Watson rejoined practically, as he sprawled on a tiny double bed and flipped through _ESPN Magazine_.

"We can't afford to attract attention by staying anywhere—decent," Holmes whined.

"Well, I can't see what I'm accomplishing by getting imaginary therapy," said Watson. "Couldn't you just go to both psychiatrists yourself?"

"Ideally, yes," Holmes answered, "but Dr. Lecter is more dangerous to my ruse than Dr. Du Maurier, also more important. I can't risk him figuring out who I am. You, at least, are consulting him in your own guise, more or less."

"We both know I can't do what you do," said Watson tartly.

"Unfortunately not," said his friend, "but you're the next best thing. I'll help you remember what you know."

For the next half hour, Holmes gave his friend his own kind of mental examination, managing to extract details Watson hadn't even realized he'd taken in, and without losing his temper in the process, which was the real miracle.


	3. Hunting Stags

**Hunting Stags**

"What's happened to me,' he thought. It was no dream."  
― Franz Kafka, _The Metamorphosis_

Alana Bloom sat opposite Will Graham. It was just a visit this time; she'd strong-armed Jack Crawford into letting her see him without the two-way glass that meant someone was eavesdropping on every word. Strong-armed wasn't really the right word. She'd guilted him into it, really. Perhaps it wasn't ethical to insinuate that it was Jack's fault everything had come crashing down, that if Will was guilty, then he should bear some of the blame. She could do psychic driving of her own, and she didn't, truth be told, feel very bad about it. Of course, when Will was proven innocent, none of it would matter anyway.

She wasn't sure exactly how she had come to believe so strongly in the innocence of the bowed, broken man before her. She had seen the same evidence that had convinced everyone else that appearances were realities, but it hadn't had the same effect. For a long while, she'd agonized over whether her feelings were clouding her judgment. But then she'd wakened up one morning with absolute assurance and comfortable mental clarity. She knew Will Graham, what he was and was not capable of doing. It was always like that with her. She would puzzle over a problem until her brain sorted it for her, and when she knew something, she knew it with pristine clarity.

What she was less sure about was Hannibal Lecter's role. When she looked into Will's eyes, she knew he wasn't lying. His recovering brain was telling him that her teacher, one of the men she admired most in the world, was a ruthless, unrepentant killer. She wanted to understand how her friend's—her almost-lover's—mind could have arrived at such a preposterous conclusion. Will's gift had been right in the past, but surely this was a bridge beyond sanity.

"You're very quiet today, Dr. Bloom." Will smiled at her weakly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think I'm a little bit too comfortable. Even here, I feel at home talking to you."

"Or not talking," he added.

"Will, I—," she leaned close, afraid to say what she had come to reveal, in case there was a recording device in the room, something she wouldn't have put past Jack Crawford. "I'm working hard to get you out of here." She gave him a meaningful look, hoping his powers of empathy would make him magically able to apprehend her intention. Of course, they did not.

"The only way anyone's going to do that is to pin this on the real Copycat Killer," he said.

"That's what I'm trying to do," she said, shaking her head. If he could just let go of his insanity about Lecter, she thought, people like Jack and Beverly might be more likely to listen to what he had to say about his own innocence.

"I'm sorry we have a difference of opinion there," he said wryly.

"Your dogs are getting along," Alana said, pointedly changing the subject. All she wanted was to grab him by the shoulders, kiss him, and whisper in his ear that a man named Sherlock Holmes, the best detective in the world, was going to fix his life.

But that wasn't practical. And Alana Bloom was nothing if not practical.

"Good," he said. "They're just happy to have a place to stay."

She reached over then and put her hand on top of his, something she wasn't supposed to do. Who cared about practicality after all? Definitely not Alana Bloom.


	4. The Hound

**The Hound**

"It was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forwards."  
― Franz Kafka, _The Metamorphosis_

Holmes walked around the reporter's apartment carefully, taking pains not to disturb anything, before settling onto the sofa comfortably. He never grew tired of observing how completely a living space could reflect the mind of its inhabitant.

And what did he observe about the mind of Freddie Lounds? Little that her writing had not already told him. She was obvious. That was her weakness, her weapon, and to some, her charm. She played all of her cards in every hand, for better or for worse.

Unbidden, the face of Irene Adler came to his mind, and his logical brain quickly categorized both women into a side-by-side comparison and contrast. Each had a certain power, a brash quality that could frighten the easily manipulated, but beyond that, the similarities ceased. Irene held all the secrecy and subterfuge that Freddie rejected.

Holmes understood neither approach fully. He could easily see situations in which secrecy was preferable, but others in which openness could be much more effective. He found each woman's extremity excessive to the point of liability. Still, he could hardly find it in himself to complain about qualities that gave him the ability to gain footholds where there might have been none.

Within half an hour, the door opened, just as Holmes had expected it would. Upon observing him on her sofa, the redheaded reporter seamlessly whipped a can of mace out of her handbag and held it in front of his face.

"That will hardly be necessary, Miss Lounds," he said smoothly. "After all, we know each other." Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice, and she stepped back to take in the full effect of the trenchcoat and scarf he still wore.

After a moment, her expression changed to a positively hungry grin. "My goodness, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. This _is _a pleasant surprise."

Holmes felt himself becoming irritated at her supercilious manner, but he forced a smile onto his face. "You know who I am, just as I thought you would."

"O course!" she simpered. "I take it you're here on a case. What can a humble blogger do for you?" She sat down next to him, a little too close for comfort.

"I have my own blogger," he couldn't resist putting in, but he quickly continued, "Let me be totally frank, something I think you can appreciate."

"Certainly," she replied, staring at him as he spoke, like a greyhound contemplating a juicy bone.

"I'm here to look into the Will Graham case. I neither want, nor need, your assistance. What I need is for you to leave well enough alone and to tell no one I'm here."

Freddie's face darkened, but she managed to choke out, "Why come to me, then?"

"I had reason to believe that you would recognize me if you saw me during the course of my investigation, given your continuous interest in my website and John's blog. Your powers of observation are unusually high."

She preened a little at this, but tried to look as if she was not pleased. "And how do you intend to keep me from informing Jack Crawford of your identity?" she asked.

Holmes had nearly reached the limits of his civility. "I know that you've used illegal means to obtain evidence for your articles in at least three of the last five cases you've covered. In this apartment now, you have two objects that should, by rights, be in the FBI's possession. I know this, and so does John. If you lean on me, I will have no choice but to tell exactly what I know."

Freddie looked furious. "Fine," she spat. "But if you do anything whatsoever to harass me again, I'll have no trouble calling the police and having you arrested for breaking and entering."

The detective rose to leave. "It seems we understand each other. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He cut an impressive figure as he exited the apartment, a fact of which he was well aware.


	5. Gathering

**Gathering**

"Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light."  
― Franz Kafka, _The Metamorphosis_

Bedelia Du Maurier listened as the rich notes of Sigerson's beautiful violin traveled through her house and seemed to fill up her entire body. His talent had been listed in his medical charts, and she'd encouraged him to bring his instrument with him to his second appointment. Sometimes, giving a patient a chance to show that he could do something well could go a long way toward reminding him that he wasn't hopeless. The transported look on his face while he played indicated to her that she had judged rightly

"Mendelssohn," she said, once he'd taken his seat back opposite her. As usual, he stared at his long fingers instead of her face. Eye contact was something she hoped to help him develop over time.

"I like the Romantics," he answered. "Do you?" It was the first time he'd dared to ask Bedelia anything, and she was gratified by the progress.

"I do," she said. "There's something refreshing about hearing pure emotion."

"Yes," he replied. "Most people wear their emotions less obviously. It would be nice to hear them so clearly."

"Wouldn't it?" said the psychiatrist, thinking of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

"Dr. Doyle, why are you here?" Hannibal sat back in his chair, contemplating the short, fair-haired man in front of him. He'd deduced during their first appointment at the patient was medical, and that common ground had broken the ice. Doyle wasn't relaxed, but he was closer to it than he'd been two days before.

"You asked me that last time," the patient answered.

"Yes, and I want you to tell me again."

"I'm getting married, and I don't want Afghanistan to be part of my marriage," said the small doctor.

"I see. You don't limp any more, but you still feel haunted."

"I used to think the limp was the biggest problem, but it wasn't."

"You've thought about taking your life," said Hannibal matter-of-factly. It wasn't in the medical charts, but he was no idiot.

Surprisingly, Doyle smiled. "I used to think about it all the time. Before I started my job."

"Your work at the clinic that you mentioned before?" The short man nodded.

Lecter was skeptical. The patient had to be hiding something. The medical records in his briefcase and the man before him did not combine to paint a picture of a life that would be fulfilled by sitting at a desk prescribing antibiotics for sinus infections. He considered pressing for honestly, but he determined quickly that it was too soon. He'd begun to like John Doyle, and he didn't want to endanger the tenuous thread of trust he'd started to weave.

* * *

"Did you have to give him my actual medical records?" Watson sipped his latte and rolled his eyes at his flatmate, who hadn't said anything in a half hour, no doubt pondering the mysteries of the case.

"I didn't have time to completely fabricate something, and besides, this will give you plenty of things to discuss for as long as necessary. I did expunge all mentions of your blog from your previous therapist's notes. I don't want Lecter putting those pieces together until I'm ready," Holmes answered, absently gulping his bold roast coffee.

Watson wished he was at home on Baker Street, with his feet up, watching The Only Way is Essex and drinking Twinings, rather than sitting in a Baltimore Starbucks with nothing on his to-do list except therapy. He could hardly think of anything he'd rather do less. Still, Sherlock had told him he needed eyes and ears in the psychiatrist's house, and that was enough for Watson.

"We're having breakfast with Alana Bloom in the morning," said Holmes. "She wants a status report."

"Do you have anything to tell her?" Watson wondered.

"Of course, John." His flatmate seemed genuinely incredulous at the question.

Watson knew better than to press the issue of what Sherlock planned to say. He resigned himself to having insatiate curiosity until the following day.


	6. Sandpaper

**Sandpaper**

"Fas est ab hoste doceri.  
One should learn even from one's enemies."  
― Ovid, _Metamorphoses_

Alana Bloom was _not _a morning person. In school, she'd basically slept through any class that took place before 10:00 a.m. These days, she didn't take appointments or classes until 9:30, and she made sure to drink copious amounts of coffee before that time.

8:00 a.m. _Will Graham had better be thankful for this some day_ she groused, trudging up to the door of the IHOP nearest her house. She pulled her trenchcoat tighter against the wind and checked her reflection in the window. She looked passable, if grumpy.

"Good morning, Dr. Bloom," said Sherlock Holmes's short biographer as she entered. He stood up from a table on the right side of the room and smoothly pulled out a chair for her. The detective stayed seated, staring at his phone.

"Morning," she said, grateful that the two men had already acquired a pot of coffee. She poured a full mug and didn't speak again until she'd drunk half of it black.

"Well—," hedged Alana, unsure how to begin.

"Bedelia Du Maurier is attracted to Hannibal Lecter; she's possibly in a romantic relationship with him. Her reason for taking a sabbatical from active practice has something to do with him, though the specifics are as yet unknown to me. Lecter has a fondness for violent and provocative artwork. He was most likely manipulating Graham, though I haven't isolated the reason. I'd like to see Graham's house and the cabin that belonged to the serial killer—the Shrike—next, please. No accompaniment will be necessary, and I can be in and out without making my presence known. That establishes our current status, I believe."

Alana stared at Sherlock Holmes, trying to process the extraordinarily fast pace of his speech and the string of statements she hadn't expected. "Um—," she started to feel irritated. "Hannibal? Why in the world are you investigating him? I knew you'd have to meet him at some point, but this is ridiculous. Is this some kind of personal vendetta against the man who wrote a book about you? When are you going to meet with Will Graham?" She leaned across the table, her eyes drilling into the detective.

"Nonsense," said Holmes coolly. "Dr. Lecter and I have yet to meet. You either desire my services, or you do not, Dr. Bloom. I require complete autonomy." He pursed his lips, clearly unwilling to reveal more.

The psychiatrist sat back in her rickety plastic chair and folded her arms. It was all too familiar, this situation. He was like some kind of British Jack Crawford, with the savantness of Will Graham thrown in. "Fine," she said, rolling her eyes. It was juvenile, but she didn't care. "Thanks for the coffee."

She left the restaurant, wishing she'd slept in after all. Just before she reached her car, though, Dr. Watson came jogging over, looking concerned. "I'm sorry about Sherlock," he panted.

She stopped in front of her driver's side door. "Yes?"

"He's usually right, though," the trim man said apologetically. Alana shook her head, but she couldn't help half-smiling.

The drive home was frustrating. For the first five minutes, she stewed in her feelings. After that, as always, she started to use her thoughts to sort them out. Among all the general feelings of irritation at morning light, Sherlock Holmes's dissmissiveness, and the investigation not going the way she'd expected, there was a very specific and highly unpleasant impression. She forced herself to hone in on it; she'd long since learned that there was nothing to be gained by ignoring negative feelings.

_What if Hannibal is involved?_

The truth of her own thoughts slammed into her conscious mind, momentarily taking her breath. Surely, it was insane to even consider it. But the thought existed, placed in her head by the earnestness of Will Graham and the certainty of Sherlock Holmes, one man she adored, and the other she was beginning to loathe. But she couldn't shake her doubts.

That drive home felt like the beginning of something; she just didn't know what.


	7. Empathy

**Empathy**

"In the make-up of human beings, intelligence counts for more than our hands, and that is our true strength."

—Ovid, _Metamorphoses_

Sherlock Holmes didn't speak. He stood in the doorway of the modest home, first only smelling, then slowly opening his eyes to take in the scene around him. He clutched his pocket magnifier in his right hand, but it occupied none of his thoughts. Instead, he was completely encompassed within and without by the mind of Will Graham—that is, the mind as it was expressed by the man's home.

He smelled the distinct odor of canine and saw spare, neat furnishings and felt himself filled with calming colors—so calm, in fact, that a person of a phlegmatic disposition might have found them drab.

But Will Graham did not have a placid disposition. That was the irony of it. His house would have been perfectly ordinary—not that anything, Sherlock knew, was ever really ordinary. It might have been like hundreds of homes belonging to unmarried men, except for the details. The lures, painful in their intricate simplicity. The achingly symmetrical arrangement of every object.

Will was in the details, and they were painful. As he proceeded throughout the house, Holmes felt his internal state change, until he could feel the agony of a mind covered in empathy so thick it threatened to choke his very life away. If he'd tried, he could have given a hundred different reasons why he knew what it was like to be Will Graham—observations, facts, details. But those deductions united and became a single impression, the feeling of another man's mind. He had no idea how much like Will Graham he was.

* * *

John Watson watched his friend, knowing better than to speak and disturb the rapid rhythm of inward thought. He might not lay claim to the title of detective, but he wasn't without perception. Graham's house reminded him of his flat, the tiny, miserable place he'd occupied before Stamford's rescue.

The two spaces looked nothing alike. Watson was orderly, but not pathologically so. Graham's lures and boat parts indicated a temperament suited to the sort of detail work John despised. The furnishings were nothing like his had been, either.

But there was something. Watson couldn't have cited a single objective fact to support a comparison. He only knew that when he walked through Will Graham's house, a wave of emotion washed over him, so akin to the one he'd felt in the old days that it might have been its twin.

Watson knew that he could leave it to Sherlock to prove the truth in a way a court would understand, but within himself, he was sure. The sort of man who lived in Will Graham's home was the same sort of man who'd pulled the trigger to save his best friend on a dark night in London, and that man would not—could not—be a cold-blooded killer. As far as John was concerned, that was all there was to it.


	8. Control

**Control**

"Right it is to be taught even by the enemy."

Ovid, _Metamorphoses_

"I—I heard you quit practicing for a while. Why was that?" Sigerson's voice was halting, and Bedelia could tell it took him great effort to ask the question. Not unusual, really. Patients with Sigerson's neuroses could be expected to fear abandonment by a psychiatrist to whom they'd begun to become attached. The third appointment was a normal time for those feelings to surface. It was her policy to be as frank as the law allowed.

"There was an incident. A patient became violent. I spent a great deal of time coming to terms with my involvement."

"Oh, how horrendous," the young man answered, his face aghast. "I saw—I mean, my father was a medical doctor, you know."

Bedelia knew nothing of the sort; his records hadn't even mentioned his parents. Her interest, however, was piqued. She sat slightly forward, making sure all of her movements were deliberate and relaxed. Her posture was intended to convey sympathy, engagement, and the expectation of more. "Yes? What did you see?" She kept her voice soft and low.

Sigerson stared at his feet, and Bedelia hoped he wasn't going to lose his nerve. "I saw," he whispered, "one of my father's patients shoot his assistant." The doctor clenched her fingers inadvertently, then cursed inwardly at her lack of control. She was glad Sigerson was ensconced in his own recollections and hadn't seemed to notice.

"She—she was his wife," he continued. "My father was having an affair with her. It all happened right in the office. I hated going there after that."

"I'm sorry," Bedelia answered sincerely. "My own situation wasn't so different." She hadn't intended to tell a more detailed version of the story, but she was a compassionate doctor, and Sigerson's pale, agonized face tugged at her. She was far too discreet to use names, but in a matter of moments, she had given Sigerson a far more extensive explanation of the incident that had led to her temporary retirement than she had ever told anyone else who hadn't been present for it. Her reward was the obvious relief on his face when he realized that he wasn't alone.

* * *

"You are afraid of your own ability to be violent." Hannibal sat back in his Danish Modern chair and looked placidly at Dr. Doyle. The words were a challenge, of sorts. Lecter could be gentle when necessary, but he was not generally known for the subtlety of his methods. He preferred bringing the truth to the forefront as quickly as possible.

"No," the patient answered, looking as placid as his doctor. He did not elaborate further.

"Then what instead?" Hannibal wasn't irritated; the little man was becoming a puzzle, and that made him more interesting.

"I can do what needs to be done, and I'm not ashamed of it," Doyle answered.

"That wasn't the question," Lecter rejoined patiently.

"I'm not afraid, either," the patient answered without hesitation. "I have control of myself."

"We all lose control sometimes, Doctor," Hannibal said, smiling.

"Do we?" asked Doyle, his eyes drilling the psychiatrist.

"Have you ever considered that your preoccupation with control might be keeping you prisoner to the past?" Lecter continued, hoping the patient's demeanor would give him a clue as to the efficacy of his present line of discussion.

"I think you're just trying to make me feel better," Doyle retorted. "You don't seem like someone who ever loses control."

"Nonsense," Hannibal answered. "The key is directing that loss of control into something useful."

* * *

Holmes was pleased. He sprawled on the coverlet of his undersized hotel bed and perused his notebook. John was already asleep in the adjoining room, but the detective's mind was too engaged to allow him the luxury.

He considered his success of the day as a matter of course. Du Maurier had been as susceptible as he'd supposed, and her account of the incident served to flesh out (ironic turn of phrase) the official report. Of course, she had given no name for the patient who had defended her—perhaps even more savagely than she had been attacked. The psychiatrist had not used those words, but they had been hinted at underneath her calm demeanor. She had given no name, but Holmes was easily able to supply one. Lecter had been her only patient during her hiatus from practice, and the police record showed that his appointment had fallen just after Du Maurier's attack. Those things, coupled with what Holmes was beginning to learn of Lecter's character, made his involvement more certain than likely.

_Controlled loss of control _Holmes murmured to himself, underlining the phrase in his Moleskine. While his own victory had been expected, he was surprised at the nuances of what his friend had discovered. Experience had taught him that Watson was a formidable asset, but his talents usually lay in more practical directions. The doctor's conversation with Lecter had obviously taken more imagination than Holmes had believed him capable of summoning.

To Holmes, Dr. Lecter was like a house. Once he could see the foundation, the man's character, he would begin to understand what sort of experiences might be built on top of it. His progress, for the moment, was more than satisfactory.


	9. Shrike's Lair

**Shrike's Lair**

And Venus' son replied: 'Your bow, Apollo,  
May vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you.  
As every creature yields to power divine,  
So likewise shall your glory yield to mine."

— Ovid, _Metamorphoses_

Suppressing her annoyance with Sherlock Holmes, Alana Bloom acquired permission, at great personal risk, to bring what she called "psychiatric associates" to the cabin of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She took pride in the fact that she hadn't really lied. The omission of exactly who these associates might be could, perhaps, be seen as an important omission, but it was a technicality. No one, including Jack Crawford, could accuse her of actual obfuscation.

In spite of Holmes's strong insistence on autonomy, Alana accompanied him and his friend, rather relishing the fact that her presence obviously irked him. He didn't dislike her; she was perceptive enough to see that. His irritation seemed more generalized, as if any encroachment on his methods was beyond the pale. Nevertheless, the psychiatrist wasn't willing to risk her career on a mishap in her absence.

"I see that Freddie Lounds's lurid descriptions didn't overstate the case," said the detective drily, crossing the threshold in front of Watson and Alana. As with every time she'd been to the cabin, Alana had to suppress a feeling of intense revulsion. It was a disgusting place. Even without her intimate knowledge of Hobbs's depravity, she would have known something was wrong in the mind of the person who'd furnished it.

"I'll stay in the front room," she said quickly. "Feel free to look, but don't disturb anything." It was her concession to Holmes's expertise.

The doctor stayed with her, still and quiet, but with a look of disgust that matched Alana's inner state. Finally, he shook his head. "It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect a serial killer to have, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Alana agreed.

"They never found his daughter's body, did they?"

"No."

Doctor and psychiatrist subsided into companionable silence, and Alana realized that her vaguely positive feelings about Dr. Watson had crystallized into genuine appreciation. He wasn't a particularly complicated specimen, but he was a very good one.

After nearly an hour, Sherlock Holmes rejoined them, displaying none of his thoughts, as usual. "I suppose it's pointless to ask if you've found anything important," Alana said resignedly. Suddenly, Holmes's blue eyes fixed themselves on her with their full intensity.

"Nothing and everything," he said, speaking abnormally quickly. "There's no possibility Will Graham is the copycat killer. Beyond that, I never guess until I have all the facts."

"I'm glad you agree with me," she answered, half-smiling.

"You understand, I can't take anyone's word, even someone as intelligent as yourself, without evidence," he rejoined.

"True," she conceded, amused that she'd managed to elicit something like civility from the detective. His awkward compliment to her mind pleased her greatly. Still, he didn't assuage her curiosity any further by explaining the reason for his abrupt acceptance of Will's innocence. That, apparently, would have to wait.


End file.
